Sunday, April 27, 2008

Rough Night of Drinking

I’ve been absent for a bit due to a heavy workload, however this past weekend warrants a post so I made some time.

Background: I met this girl a few weeks ago and we hit it off pretty well. I was loaded and never even exchanged numbers with her or anything. She was a friend of a friend, and my friend called me a couple days later to get my thoughts on the girl. I was interested but figured I probably wouldn’t see her again for a year, so why pursue it. When my friend called it was to let me know the girl was asking if I was going to be at a get-together they were having at a local bar. “Well I am now” I said, and I went this past Friday.

I got to the bar and had one beer, then decided I needed a little pick me up so I switched to vodka and Red Bull. Fast-forward about 6 hours and 800 vodka/Red Bulls later. All I remember is being my usual obnoxious self, then deciding it was time to go home. It was still far from closing time but I could barely stand up straight. I don’t remember leaving the bar, apparently never tipped out the bartenders (although they did have my card number and ran it for $150 so hopefully some of that was a tip), and the next thing I know it’s 8:00 in the morning and I’m waking up on a friend’s couch buck naked. Note: It was a good thing I didn’t try to drive to my own house because I either would have got in an accident or went to jail, and luckily for me my friend lived about a mile away from the bar. When I woke up I looked around the room, wondering why it’s spinning like a tilt-a-whirl at the county fair. I throw on my boxers and head to the bathroom to throw up, then catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and notice something didn’t look quite right. After spewing a few pints of orange bile in the toilet I splash some cold water on my face and take a closer look in the mirror. Black eye. I touched below my eye and it hurt like a motherfucker. Did I get in a fight? Nah, I probably would have been beat up much worse in the condition I was in. What the hell happened?

I went into my friends room and she was nowhere to be found. This is odd, it’s 8am on a Saturday and she’s gone? I couldn’t find my keys anywhere so I just laid back down on the couch and went back to sleep. About 45 minutes later she came in the front door and I asked what the hell happened. She asked “what do you mean” like I was speaking broken Portuguese or something. “My eye, what’s up with my eye? And where are you coming from?”

As she filled me in the details started to come back to me a little bit. Evidently she had driven 45 minutes to my house to let my dog out, then 45 minutes back. She said my eye got hit by her dog the previous night when I was playing rough with it. Sounds fishy to me…I think she probably popped me one for some dumb comment. Whatever the case, I’ve definitely got a battle wound from something. I was still drunk when I woke up and for whatever reason decided to make a little video diary of myself. Perhaps I’ll post it on here one of these days, because it’s frickin’ hilarious.

So what happened to the girl at the bar you wonder? I wish I knew. I’m sure I pissed her off somehow but don’t remember the details. I sent text messages to her and her friend yesterday and neither one responded. Looks like Dumbass Jake strikes again!

Tuesday, March 18, 2008

Ashley Alexander Dupre Review

With all the talk about Elliot Spitzer these days and his former hooker Ashley Alexander Dupre, I figured I’d give my “professional” 2 cents.

Ashley is capitalizing on her new-found fame by releasing music, spending time with the Girls Gone Wild crew, and I’m sure a book deal is already in the works. Someone needs to stop this girl. The fact that she’s getting her 15-minutes of fame is not the issue with me. The real issue is the prices she charged as an escort. I mean really, I heard she was making over $4,000 per “date” with Spitzer. Yes, I hook up with a lot of fat chicks, but I do still know a good looking girl when I see one, and I don’t see anything special about Ashley Dupre. Yeah, she’s OK looking, but I’ve had much hotter escorts (c’mon, they’re hookers…say it with me now…HOO-KERS). I’ve not only had hotter hookers than Ashley Dupre, but I’ve had them for $300. And that’s Canadian money back in the day (like $200 USD), bitches! Get off this Ashley Alexander Dupre kick people, because she’s just another whore, and a rip-off at that. Support your local prostitutes!

Sunday, March 9, 2008

Wrong Place but the Right Thing to Do

My friends and I went bar hopping one night and ended up at this really small bar. The total capacity is probably only like 60 people, and it was over capacity this particular night. From time to time I go out and realize once I’m out that I have to go to the bathroom, and I’m not talking about taking a leak. Nothing stirs up panic quite like having that uneasy rumbling in your tummy and your body’s automatic response of clinching up your butt cheeks.

Like I said, this night was a little crowded in this tiny bar, and there were about 6 guys in line for the mens room. I waited, waited, and waited some more, and finally I started looking around to see if I could shit in a corner because these guys were taking forever. About that time a girl came out of the ladies room and there were no other girls in line. Nobody else jumped in there within 5 seconds so I darted in and shut the door behind me. Ahh…finally some relief for my unhappy colon. About 30 seconds in I heard a hand jiggle the door handle and try to come in. I had locked the door just in case which turned out to be a good decision. The girl was obviously impatient as I sat there making sure I was truly done. Once I was done I washed my hands and gave the toilet a flush with my foot. I knew it was going to be a little awkward walking out the door leaving a smelly bathroom for the next person, especially since I was using the ladies room to spread my funky joy. There was only one thing to do…walk out like I owned the place. By this time the girl was pounding on the door so I was pretty annoyed. Just as I was unlocking the door I heard the unmistakable sound of water pouring onto the floor. I turned around and saw a mixture of brown water and toilet paper pouring over the rim of the toilet like the eruption of Pompeii. “Fuck it” I said. I continued as planned…walked out that ladies room door like I owned the place. The girl who had been pounding on the door had a look of shock on her face when she saw a man come out of the ladies room. I said “enjoy yourself,” winked at her, and walked right past her to get the beer I left at the bar. I made it about 3 steps when I heard a shriek, followed by an “oh my…” and then a gagging sound. I felt like a million bucks, not just because I had unloaded my dinner on the floor of the ladies room, but because I had made a girl physically ill as a result of my bodily functions.

Tuesday, March 4, 2008

Chariots of Ass-Fire

When I was in college one of my buddies went to another college about an hour away. My girlfriend and I took a little road trip one weekend to visit him, and as was the norm during college, we went out and got trashed the first night. Just a usual night of drinking, no crazy stories. The next morning we all went to this diner which was a few hundred yards from my buddy’s apartment. Nothing cures a hangover like some eggs, fried hashbrowns, sausage, and 12 strips of bacon. We all tore up the breakfast and then it happened…GURGLE…GURGLE…UH-OH!  I’ve never seen anything like this. All three of us had simultaneously come down with a severe case of “Oh my God, I’m going to shit my pants”. Check please!

We threw our money on the table and ran out the door like we just saw our competition fly past in the Cannonball Run. We were walking briskly back to the apartment and then it dawned on me…there was no way I was waiting for these two to use the bathroom before me. I just couldn’t do it, so I started running. A second later, my buddy and my girlfriend realized I was making a Carl Lewis dash for the first shot at the john so they started sprinting too. I swear I could hear my buddy humming the Chariots of Fire theme song behind me. We all forced our way through the door at the same time, something like you’d see the Three Stooges do. I accomplished my mission and locked myself in the bathroom first. Phew, what a relief that was. When I emerged from the tiny bathroom reeking of a decomposing animal, my buddy tried to be hospitable and let my girlfriend go first. She was apparently trying to keep up the myth that “girls don’t poop” so she wanted to go last. “No complaints here” my buddy said, and he took care of business next. He came out and the bathroom smelled even worse than before which I never would have imagined could be possible. My girlfriend went in last, and she was embarrassed because it was a small apartment and she was about to practice her animal sounds out of her ass. She wanted us to stay away from the door like we would try to listen or something. About 10 minutes later we were watching TV, and the girlfriend pops her head out of the bathroom to ask “umm…do you have a plunger?”  So much for perpetuating that myth about girls not pooping!

I felt like a true champion that day, my friends. Every time I hear Chariots of Fire I get a tear in my eye and think about winning the gold.

Saturday, March 1, 2008

My Own Personal Glory Hole

A few years back I used to work with this hot blonde chick. I’m talking smokin’ hot. We worked with kids and were in charge of a social event one evening. We brought them to a roller skating rink. I was all excited to be out with this girl in more of a social setting instead of the usual office routine.

I threw on a decent shirt, my favorite jeans (even though they had a hole in the crotch) and headed out the door. I pulled up to the roller skating rink and saw this girl through the window. Man, she looked even hotter in “regular” clothes. A perfect ass, perky little tits, all in all about a 9.8 on the Jake scale. We rented our roller skates and I got to show off my moves I perfected in the early 80’s.

After a while we sat down on a couple of benches and just talked for a bit. We hit it off pretty well and she kept staring at my crotch, so I took that as a pretty good sign that she was interested. She made it pretty obvious too, like she couldn’t take her eyes off my goods. After a while we went our separate ways and I headed back home. I walked in the door and sat on my couch, still thinking about how hot this chick looked, but starting to wonder why she kept staring at me. I felt a little breeze, and when I looked down I realized the hole in my crotch had gotten a lot bigger, and my “goods” were right there for the world to see. Evidently my junk wanted to get a little air and made its way out of my boxers and into plain view. Holy shit, that’s why she was staring at me…she was trying to tell me that my shit was hanging out. How did the hole in my jeans get so much bigger? How did I not feel that something was “out there”? How the fuck could I face this girl again? We never ended up going out, and work was never quite the same after that incident.

Tuesday, February 26, 2008

Why Do Fat Chicks Always Wear Black?

I was visiting a client yesterday and he had one of his sales reps from another company meet me. I got there before she did and had no clue what to expect, but I always like to meet sales reps because they’re usually (a) female and (b) good looking. Not the case here.

As soon as she squeezed through the door I knew it was her. Probably about 250 pounds and decked out in all black. I always find it funny when fat chicks wear black because they think it makes them look skinny. Come on, what the fuck do you girls smoke that makes you think that? I mean, if you’re 250, I don’t care what color you wear, you’re still 250. Do you think our eyes magically erase anything we see that’s black? The funniest thing is that they think they can squeeze into something 3 sizes smaller because it’s black. Sorry honey, now you just look like 10 pounds of sausages stuffed into a 5 pound bag.

Now for the best part. This chick said she needed to meet up with me to go over some stuff, so I suggested a bar. I could tell she was interested in me (I swear fat chicks can sense my willingness to fuck anything) so I wanted to suggest we meet somewhere that had lots of alcohol, because I’m going to need it. I scheduled our meeting a little ways out because she looked like she had pink-eye. Maybe it was just a piece of ham stuck to her face, who knows. I’ll be sure and post the after-meeting happenings at a later time.

Thursday, February 14, 2008

West Coast Blitzed

A few years ago I used to work in sales. Since the company I worked for was on the East coast, it was always tough to call the West coast clients because of the time differential. My boss at the time came up with a plan…a West coast blitz.

The idea was a good one. Sales reps would come in late one day, around 1pm, and work until 9pm. To make it fun for the employees there were prizes that reps could win if they got a sale the evening of the blitz. Sounds easy enough, right?

Well at the time, one of my coworkers and I were in a pool (billiards) league that had matches at night. All of our matches were played in local bars, so we always drank the whole time. This one night before we were scheduled for the West coast blitz we decided we could get really drunk since we could sleep in. After all, who couldn’t make it to work by 1:00 in the afternoon? We shot pool all night, put back some beers, and did a bunch of shots until we were stumbling drunks.

After the pool league is a blur to me…I couldn’t tell you what happened. All I know is that I woke up the next morning around 6am, and I could tell something wasn’t quite right. I opened my eyes and saw trees. I felt my dog licking my face. When I sat up, I realized I was in the middle of my lawn. I stood up, puked a few times, and then went into the house to crawl into my bed.

I woke from my morning nap around 11am and continued to throw up. I just sat on the bathroom floor, hugging the toilet, and tried to think of how I was going to call in sick. At this point in my career I had my boss pretty well wrapped around my finger, so I took a chance and just went back to bed. I woke up again, this time from a very short nap, and realized that I couldn’t just not show up for work. There was no way in hell I was calling my boss to say I was late, because I knew she would be pissed. She knew we had our pool league the night before and specifically told us not to drink too much. Instead I called my friend who I worked with and who had to be in at the same time I was. I left him a few voicemails and asked him to cover for me.

I finally made it into work around 2:00, an hour late. I went to my buddy’s desk and asked him what was up. He quickly told me that he just got there about 10 minutes earlier and he tried to shoo me away so our boss didn’t see us talking. What I didn’t know was that my friend had left me a voicemail to cover for him. We were both hurting bad, and our boss was about to rip us new ones. We always had a good time while working, but this day we were nervously glued to the desks hoping the boss wouldn’t say anything. Every time she came out of her office she just glared at us like she was going to kill us. The only thing I thought to do to put her at ease was to get a sale in, so I did…and it was the biggest sale ever for that department.

I held onto the contract for a bit in case she decided she wanted to ream me, and that time inevitably came around 7pm. She said she wanted to see me in her office, and I walked in there with my new sale contract. “Before you begin,” I said, “I want to give you this contract I just got in”. She grabbed it, put it aside after peeking at the amount, and then said “shut the door”.  I got my ass chewed out for a good half hour. I was threatened about being fired, given the old “don’t come into work hungover” speech, you name it. When she finally told me to get out of her office and sell some more I had the nerve to ask her what my prize was for getting that sale in. I wish I could have taken a picture of her face when I asked that, because it was priceless, and she just pointed out the door. At the end of the day I was given an umbrella…what a fucking gift for a $25k sale.

Saturday, February 2, 2008

Should I Call 911 or Bleed to Death with Dignity?

Last year I had what I thought was a near death experience, thanks to pure stupidity on my part. You see, I had a girl living with me at the time who I’ve known for a long time. I can do anything in front of her and not be embarrassed, but this was an exception.

I was getting ready to take a shower to help my hangover and really had to go to the bathroom. I had just eaten a big, greasy breakfast after a long night of drinking, and it wanted out. Before I sat on the toilet I walked by the mirror and noticed I needed to shave my face. I’ve never been a fan of normal razors, so I just use hair clippers without the guard on. Seems to cut my facial hair short enough, but doesn’t give me the “baby face” that I hate. Standing in front of the mirror naked, I ran the clippers across my face and noticed they seemed to be getting a little dull. I had these particular clippers for a couple years now, so it was finally time for some new ones. I finished up, and as I shut them off I looked down and figured “what the hell”…I could use a little trim “down there” around the frank and beans.

Normally the thought of blades near your goods would scare anyone away. Not this idiot. I turned the clippers back on and decided to give myself a trim before I threw out the old clippers. I was being very careful for obvious reasons. Not getting too close to anything and going slow. At one point I was lifting the frank up to get to the part between the frank and beans, and I don’t know how it happened, but I heard the hum of the clippers suddenly change to a lower pitch like I had tried to cut a piece of aluminum siding. I let out a scream, and when I looked down there was already a small pool of blood on the floor.

I must have used the mini-chainsaw by accident
When someone gets scared, you always hear people say they turn “white as a ghost”. Since I was in front of the mirror I can now vouch for this. I had cut my frenulum, the little piece of skin on the underside of the frank that my friend refers to as the “chicken skin”. I had clearly hit an artery because blood was just gushing out. “Fuck” I said to myself, what should I do? Being trained in first aid I immediately grabbed my junk as hard as I could, like I was trying to turn a lump of coal into a diamond. Blood just kept coming out and dripping on the floor, and I was about to pass out. I had to sit down on the edge of the tub so I didn’t fall over and nail my head on the floor. I’m sitting there, frank in my fist, wondering which is better…to call 9-1-1 and go through the most embarrassing ordeal of my life, or to risk bleeding to death. I chose the latter. If I was going out, I was going out in a blaze (or blade) of glory. I called for my roommate and she came running into the bathroom wondering what happened. The look on her face was priceless…seeing a grown man naked with his dick in his hand and blood all over the place. I asked her to give me a cold cloth to put on my forehead which she did. I told her what happened and she wanted to call the ambulance, but I was able to talk her out of it. She left the bathroom to leave me alone again.

When the adrenaline finally kicked in and I felt like I wasn’t going to pass out I realized I still had to take a shit. “Oh man, how the hell am I going to pull this one off” is what went through my mind. Of all times to have to go, why now? Still with my junk in my fist, I tried to sit down on the toilet, and it was very awkward. I took care of business without letting go.

I got in the shower, and the hot water on my fresh cut felt like battery acid. I let out another yell and the roommate came back in. “Jesus, what’s that fucking smell?” she asked. I said “when you gotta go, you gotta go, now get out of here”. I managed to wash up in the shower through the excruciating pain and toweled myself off with one hand, and the other still hadn’t let go.

The rest of the day was spent with me sitting naked in my living room recliner, a towel underneath me, and a wash cloth wrapped around my junk with me squeezing it. The roommate kept telling me she thought we should call the ambulance, and I kept saying I’d rather bleed to death. She spent hours researching medical websites and reading her findings to me. One site said this sort of cut could cause permanent loss of sensation and erectile dysfunction. That comment got me thinking: “Shit, what’s going to happen when I get a hard-on in my sleep? Am I going to wake up in a pool of blood screaming?”  Luckily there were no major consequences.  I told the roommate that she was NEVER to tell anyone about this experience, but the next time I was out with friends I had to tell the story. Now the entire world knows.

Things You Should Find Out Sooner When Sleeping with Someone

A few years ago I had the “summer of love”. I had a pretty good run at girls that summer, and one in particular sticks out.

A girl I worked with was always a little quiet. She seemed pretty cool and I could tell she had a wild side, so I asked her out one night. I had a few drinks at my place and she said she didn’t drink. She wanted to go for a walk, so we left out the back door and started across the parking lot. She told me to hold on a second because she had to piss. I thought she was kidding at first, but we were no more than 50 feet from my back door, and all of a sudden she drops her pants, squats, and pisses in the parking lot, right next to a dumpster. Quite the lady I must say. Pretending like it was nothing, we continued on our walk which lasted a few hours.

We eventually got back to my place and ended up in bed. We started going at it almost immediately, and then she dropped a bomb on me: she was pregnant. By instinct I immediately said “it can’t be mine”. “No shit dumbass, we haven’t even slept together yet” she replied. She told me she recently got out of rehab for drugs, and she got pregnant when she was in there. She went on to tell me that the guy she slept with was the same guy who was in the news at the time for raping some girl a few months earlier. Cue the condom.

I ended up having sex with her and couldn’t help but imagine a fetus dodging my shit with every stroke. Kind of disturbing, but hell, I’ve done a lot of disturbing things…why stop with pregnant chicks?

The funny thing about this girl was that not only would she be my first (only) pregnant chick, but she invited me to go out on her dad’s boat. I went out, hesitant to meet the family so soon, but figured I could have a good time anyway. As soon as I stepped onto the boat I realized her dad looked familiar. I’m thinking of the girls last name, and then trying to place her dad’s face with the same last name…”Holy shit!”  Her dad was the mayor of the city.

Sunday, January 27, 2008

When Farting in Public Goes Wrong

Just a quick post here about something that happened to me last year. I was flying up North for Christmas, and I had a layover in Philly for a couple hours. I figured there was nothing to do in an airport other than drink, so I proceeded to do so for a few hours. I heard my flight called, so I made my way onto the plane. I didn’t have By the time I got to where I was going I was not only relieved to finally get there, but I had been holding in a fart for pretty much the whole plane ride. I had a little time before my ride picked me up, so rather than rush to the baggage claim with everyone else I darted outside for that moment I had been waiting for. OK, too many people here, a bus is loading there, a-ha, I see an empty bench down there. I walked about 100 yards to be by myself in my moment of glory, sat down on a concrete bench, and…oh no, who’s this lady walking my way? I had to hold it for another 10 seconds until she walked past because I didn’t want her throwing up when she got to where I was. Whew, she’s out of earshot now, here we go, one….two….RIPPPP!

I swear it sounded like the Hamburger Helper hand had slapped the shit out of a fat kid. Some old lady who had shuffled past me a few seconds earlier had stopped and turned around to see what the hell just happened. Maybe she thought it was her, who knows. A security guard about 40 feet away looked my way like he heard it too. I’m usually a good judge of how loud a fart is going to be prior to release, but this time I was WAY off! I don’t know if it was the atmospheric conditions, the angle of my ass on the bench, or just the reverberation off the concrete, but it was honestly one of the loudest farts I’ve ever had. I couldn’t stop laughing for about a half hour. I’d get myself composed, take a good deep breath, and then burst into laughter again. People looking at me must have thought I was crazy, just sitting there by myself, laughing, and reeking of alcohol.

Welcome to Virginia. Here's Your Orange Jumpsuit.

I moved to Virginia around 1999 just for the hell of it. I didn’t have much keeping me where I was, and I had a couple of friends living in the area, so I said screw it and moved. Once I moved I bought a new car (used), a 1993 Ford Mustang GT Convertible. I’ve always had problems driving the speed limit. In fact, I’ve lost count of how many tickets I’ve received over the years. Probably in the neighborhood of 25-30. I had managed to stay away from the cops up North for a few years prior to moving to VA (except for a speeding ticket in a U-Haul on the way here), but New England and Virginia are totally different as I found out the hard way.

I had a friend visiting once I got settled in. A bunch of us went out to the bars and got pretty liquored up. At the end of the night we just headed back to my place where everyone passed out. I had sobered up a little, and thought it might be a good idea to take my new car out on the highway and see what it could do. After all, it was about 4am, so no traffic to worry about. I hit the highway with the top down on this beautiful summer night, and once I got to a straight away I hit the gas. There was a small hill, just enough of one where I couldn’t see over it, but I wasn’t worried.  I hit 100mph and was still accelerating, when on the other side of this hill was a state trooper. Oh shit, I thought, now I’m screwed. By the time he caught up with me I was already pulled over…I knew the drill.

The cop was such a dick even though I was as polite and cooperative as they come. He asked me why I was going so fast and I said I wanted to test out my new car when there weren’t other people on the road. He said “Well I’m another person, and probably the last one you want to see right now. Step out of the car”.   He asked how much I had been drinking to which I gave the standard answer “a couple of beers a few hours ago”. He gave me all the field tests which I passed, barefoot on the side of the highway. He let me go without checking my BAC but gave me a speeding ticket for 100 in a 55 zone.

Fast forward a couple of months. I figured traffic court was no big deal, but I had never been in VA. I walk into the court with my defense all planned out…no tickets in several years so they should go easy on me. So much for that. The first thing out of the judge’s mouth was a question about the ticket I got in the U-Haul a few weeks earlier. “Shit, that’s already on the books?” I thought to myself. I froze, and the judge sentenced me to 10 days in jail since I gave him no reason to do otherwise. I only had to actually serve 5 days, but I couldn’t believe this was happening. I’m going to jail for a damn speeding ticket? “I’m a good, upstanding citizen dammit! I’m not a criminal!”

I went through all the jail processing over the next few hours, and then they brought me into a room where I was issued my bright orange jumpsuit. They had me take all my clothes off and they got a “good look” to make sure I wasn’t smuggling drugs into the jail. Nothing like squatting down, spreading your cheeks, and coughing for 3 prison guards. That was a humbling experience, I tell ya. They told me to put the jumpsuit on, but I wasn’t allowed to wear my boxers or socks because they were not solid white.

I finally made it into my cell which was general population. 30 guys in one big room with bunk beds, a toilet (out in the open), and a shower.  There was a little overcrowding problem so the first two nights I slept on a concrete floor. A guy named “Cadillac” had the bunk next to me and nobody liked him because he smelled bad. I got the crash course in how everything works…breakfast at like 4:30 am, lunch around 10am, and dinner around 4:30pm. Supplies were delivered on Thursdays. This was a Friday, so I was screwed. Toilet paper was one of the supplies, and nobody wanted to share theirs. I didn’t care for the first day because I was determined to hold it for all 5 days so I didn’t have to shit (or shower) in front of 30 other people.

Day one was OK, but after a couple of meals consisting of “mystery meat” and some other foods (I use that term loosely), my stomach was starting to rumble. The second day I said screw it and really had to go. I didn’t have any toilet paper, and none of those other assholes would give me any. I thought I was going to shit myself, but I was determined, and somehow my mind over matter trick worked. I was walking around with my ass clenched so tight you could have opened a beer bottle in my ass crack. Uncomfortable, yet successful. Day three I made it until the afternoon, then because of a petition, Cadillac was forced to relocate to another unit. I begged him for his toilet paper and he gave it to me. I ran to the john and it sounded like someone dumped a 5-gallon bucket of water into a pond from 100 feet above.

I obviously made it through my 5 day ordeal, and did so without showering once. I smelled pretty funky. My friend who picked me up when I was released asked me what the hell happened because it smelled like I took a bath in the sewer.

It’s not a test I ever want to repeat, but I will say I have learned the limits of the human body when it comes to using (or not using) the bathroom.

Friday, January 18, 2008

A Great Story About Sleeping with Fat Chicks

I’ve been checking out a few other blogs recently, and ran across Jamie Kennedy’s blog.  I’ve always been a fan of his, but for whatever reason never looked at his site.  There’s a great story on there about hooking up with a fat chick that sounds familiar to me.  Most of my own escapades involve fatties (hey, they need lovin’ too, and it’s all pink on the inside). If you’re looking for a little Friday humor, definitely check out his story!

Monday, January 14, 2008

My Living Room Has Turned Into a Whorehouse!

A few years ago I lived with my cousin. She was attending a massage school to become a certified massage therapist and she met another girl in class who she became friends with. The girl was “down on her luck” so my cousin offered to help her out. The girl moved into our house and camped out in the living room. She put sheets up to block off the entrances to the room, and a sheet up to cover the picture window in front so people couldn’t see in from outside. Little did she know that you could see in just fine when it was dark out.

This girl was kind of cute at first. She was actually a stripper at a local strip club. After a few weeks of her living in my house she started bringing guys home from work. Every night a different guy. She’d bring him into our living room and nail him right there, and anybody in front of the house could see what was going on inside. She literally turned my living room into a whorehouse! I hooked her up on rent pretty good, but apparently I should have been charging her by the hour instead, or maybe taken a percentage of sales.

A few weeks ago I went to the strip club that she worked at and got talking with one of the dancers who had been there for a long time. She actually knew the chick that used to live with me, and said she got fired for fucking customers and stealing a bunch of money from them too. That one caught my attention, because she was the stripper who stole a few hundred bucks from me in one of my previous posts about strippers. The stripper I was talking to said the other girl got knocked up and moved to California. I’m sure she’s in a trailer park now.

Sunday, January 6, 2008

Jaegermeister Doesn't Always Go Down

I used to drink a lot of Jaegermeister…a LOT of it.  Jaeger and Red Bull (Cock Block or Jaeger Bomb, depending what bar you’re in), Jaeger/Goldschlager mixed (Starry Night), Jaeger straight up, you name it.  There were days where I’ve single-handedly put down in excess of 25 shots in one bar.  I used to love it, then something happened.  All of a sudden I couldn’t stomach it like I used to, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t try.

One day in the bar I used to own a patron bought a round of shots and gave me one.  He was wearing a brand new sweater…a light colored cashmere sweater that he just plunked some good cash on.  We all toasted and I threw the shot back.  I’m not sure what happened, but for some reason my body said NO and let out sort of a cough, and all the Jaeger that was in my mouth sprayed out all over this guys new sweater.  He was mad as hell because he thought I did it on purpose, and never came back to my bar.

Another time about a year ago I was in a bar in the town I grew up in.  It was the holidays and a few of my friends and I went out to catch up.  Some random guy introduced himself to us and he was pretty annoying.  One of those guys that talks really loud, interrupts everyone, etc.  Something was weird about him because he was with two girls and claimed one was his wife.  He was trying to hook me up with the other girl and I think he was a swinger looking to set up a little group action.  After a few drinks and shots the girl started to look better, so my plan of ignoring them turned to a plan of divide and conquer.  I was going to separate the girl from the other “husband and wife” and hook up with her.

Things were going pretty well, and the friends I was with were leaving one by one so it was time to seal the deal.  The girl and I were going to hit another bar across the street so I cashed out my tab.  The two girls were sitting at the bar and I was behind them, reaching over them to hand my credit card to the bartender.  The girls were both wearing white shirts too.  I left the bartender a fat tip, something like $100 on a $75 tab.  When he realized it, he said thank you and gave us a round of shots (the husband/wife, the other girl, and myself).  He didn’t ask what I wanted, he just gave me Jaeger for everyone.  I took mine, and just like the previous incident, my body said no and I coughed.  My mouth full of dark Jaegermeister sprayed all over the backs of the two girls, and since they both had white shirts on, it made quite a mess.  One of them didn’t even notice at first, but the other one turned around, looked at the back of her arm and started going off on me.  She was so pissed, and of course the other girl figured out what was going on so she got pissed too.  I said “have a good night” and walked out the door.

Saturday, January 5, 2008

Why I Don't Like Skinny Girls

I was discussing an event that happened to me a few years ago with a friend, and had what some might refer to as an epiphany.  I’m an inquisitive person by nature, and sometimes I try to figure out my own psychology.  I think I’ve determined the point in my life when I started hooking up with fat chicks, and more importantly, why.

A lot of psychological nuances stem from one traumatic life event. A lot of people dislike tequila for example because they may have had one bad night which ended in vomiting.  From that point forward they can’t stand even the smell of it.  My traumatic event was a skinny chick I hooked up with.  She was probably about 90 pounds.  I got drunk at a party at her place one night and ended up in bed with her.

She gave me a hand job that at the time didn’t seem so bad. She had a pretty tight grip on the situation if you know what I mean, but I was so drunk it didn’t really bother me that much.  The next morning I got up and went to the bathroom and when I looked down I was in shock.  This chick had worked me so rough that my dick was red and raw, resembling rug burn.  It was painful, much more painful than the night before, and I wondered to myself how I could have let her do that to me.  What the fuck was I thinking, or not thinking the night before?  Could I really have not noticed that she was rubbing my shit like she was trying to start a campfire?  Apparently so.

After that night the girl became known as “Indian burn” which really pissed her off.  One of my friends suggested that maybe she was trying to send smoke signals to someone else.  Whatever the case, it fucking hurt, and I think that’s what developed my aversion to skinny girls.

Farting In Front of Your Girlfriend for the First Time

Some things in life are uncomfortable, very uncomfortable.  One such thing is “breaking the seal” with your girlfriend - letting that first fart escape without trying to hide it.  Before you’ve broken the ice so to speak, there can be some uncomfortable feelings in your body.  I dated one girl a while back and we hadn’t reached that point where we were comfortable farting in front of each other yet.  We went out for dinner one night and I don’t know what I ate, but it really did not agree with me.  I was hanging out at her house watching a movie and gas was just collecting inside me.  I made up some BS excuse that I had to get something out of my car and ran outside.  Whew, that felt great.  Back inside, and then 5 minutes later, “oops, I forgot to get something else”.  The evening was spent making numerous trips to the car and I’m sure she wondered how someone could be so forgetful.

Sometimes the circumstances don’t provide you with any escape.  I dated this one girl for a few years, and the first time I ever slept over at her house was one of the most embarrassing nights ever.  It was the middle of the night and I awoke to notice intense pressure in my stomach.  Did I have to fart?  Was I about to shit?  Only one way to find out.  Since my girl was still sleeping I tried to squeak one out to test the waters.  Oops, better cut that one short because I don’t think it’s just a fart.  I crawled out of bed and headed to the bathroom which was directly across from her bedroom.  I had to go really bad but I was so gassy that if I just let it go it probably would have waken up the entire house in mass confusion of “what just exploded?”.  I practiced my technique of letting a little slip out, then stopping, then a little more, and so on.  Every time I did this a fart would come out and I’d cover my mouth to avoid laughing out loud. I did this for about a half hour and then I heard a knock on the bathroom door.  “Are you OK in there?”.  Oh man, she had been listening to the entire performance of my horn section.  “Yup, just um, you know…”. Nothing says sexy like a case of gassy diarrhea in the middle of the night on your first sleep over. I guess you could say our relationship was destined to go down the shitter from the start.